A Race Against Time: A Superwholock FanFiction
by sparrowlovE123
Summary: Backgrounds don't matter when you're racing against time. Everyone's on the same team, whether they like it or not. And sometimes, sadly enough, our heroes have to realize that sacrifice can bring you together...and tear you apart. Rated M for language (thanks, Dean.)
1. Prologue

Sherlock sat up sharply as the brilliant flash of light nearly blinded him.

And when _Sherlock _said that something nearly blinded him, he meant that he could nearly feel his cornea being stripped away by the sheer whiteness of the blast before him.

Sam and Dean were exposed to the light of this angel all the time – how were they still alive?

Suddenly, Sherlock remembered. There was a reason for this blast of light. There was a horrifying, heart stopping, gut wrenching reason for this blast of light. A reason that Sherlock, who faced facts and murders and evils every day without flinching, didn't want to acknowledge.

There was a horrible scream full of so much pain that Sherlock was shocked off the ground. Dean Winchester was running, sprinting, his brother less than two paces behind him, shouting, "NO, NO, NO, CAS, NO! NOOOO!"

So. It was true.

Sherlock swung around to stare at the Winchesters' target, noting with horror the crumpled trench coat, the limp body of the small man sprawled on the ground, the circle of ash surrounding him. Sam nearly crashed into Sherlock in his rush to reach Cas, and Sherlock saw that Sam Winchester, who was a hero, who was one of the strongest people that he knew, was crying.

_Oh, God,_ Sherlock thought, beginning to walk. _Oh, God, please no._

Dean was still yelling, trying to reach Cas. The Doctor was holding him back, spouting some gibberish about how the body was still radioactive, that Dean couldn't touch him yet, that it could kill him, too. "SHUT THE FUCK UP," Dean shouted, twisting and turning out of the Doctor's grip. "IT'S NOT 'THE BODY'. DON'T YOU DARE TALK ABOUT HIM LIKE THAT. IT'S CAS."

Sam ran up behind Dean, said, "Oh my God," and froze. Dean had knelt down and was trying to reach Cas, to see if he was alive, without the Doctor noticing. Sam placed his hand gently on Dean's shoulder and said quietly, "Dean."

Dean stopped.

Sherlock noticed that John was at the scene, begging the Doctor to test and see if Cas was still radioactive, so that he could check his vitals. Eventually, he was let in the circle and five minutes later, he looked up hopelessly. "I'm sorry," he said to Dean, and Sam's grip on his brother's shoulder tightened perceptibly.

Dean stood. He shoved off his brother's grip, looked right at Cas, and said, "You son of a bitch. You stupid, stupid son of a bitch."

"Dean –"

"Fuck off," Dean snapped, and wove through the battlefield to the Impala. The Doctor tried to follow him, but Sam held him back.

"Don't," he said warningly. "He needs time."

Time. Time was the one thing that they didn't have, Sherlock thought. Even with a Time Lord on their side, time was a hard thing to come by.

Castiel, angel of the Lord, had sacrificed himself to buy them some time. They'd be fucking with his memory not to use it. "We have to go," Sherlock announced, patting Sam on the shoulder. "Grab Cas and get to the TARDIS. We have work to do."


	2. Chapter 1

There was a blue box on the street corner.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Dean Winchester hissed under his breath as he struggled to pick the lock. "Leave it to us to get caught in a police chase in London."

"Shut up and get the door open," Sam said without looking at his brother, gun at the ready. "I told you they were possessed."

Dean threw Sam a dirty look over his shoulder as the door finally swung open a crack. "Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam replied absently as they ducked inside.

Neither of the brothers looked at the box – they were too focused on getting the blue door shut. Sam's extra height gave him the ability to look out of the windows, and after a few seconds, he breathed a sigh of relief. "They're gone," he said, both he and Dean turning away from the doors.

What they saw was not the inside of a blue box. What they saw was…something else.

"What the hell," Sam said wonderingly, walking around a circular, electronic area that looked like something out of a Star Trek movie.

"Son. Of. A. Bitch," Dean replied, running his hand along a console. There was a startling whirring sound, and the spaceship suddenly came to life. "Oh, my God. What the hell is happening?"

Sam shot him a quick, painful bitch face, then jolted in fear as the room/box shook. "Are we… moving?"

"Turn it off, dammit!"

"How?!"

"Aw, hell."

They were moving, careening, wildly spinning through London. "You drive, Dean," Sam said, gesturing to a steering wheel that was conveniently located to Dean's right. He spun it, but it only seemed to make the situation worse. Sam stumbled backwards, away from the controls, as the room tipped alarmingly.

"I can't see a damn thing! Hang on, Sammy!" Dean wrenched the wheel to the right, blindly directing them away from a building, only to hear an alert from the computer, telling him of an imminent collision to his left. "I TOLD YOU WE SHOULD HAVE DRIVEN!"

"Shut up!" Sam looked up, noticing a viewscreen in his line of vision. "Dean, look out!"

"Dammit," Dean snapped, and grabbed onto the console. He hit a button in frustration, and to his surprise, the box started to shudder to a halt. Unfortunately, he couldn't stop the forward motion before the crashed through the wall of a flat, landing (thankfully) on the floor of said flat.

"Dean," Sam said, shoving himself off the floor like he was doing a push-up and sprinting forward to the viewscreen, eyes wide with horror, "I think we just broke Baker Street."


	3. Chapter 2

John Watson had, surprisingly, been having a fairly good day.

Sherlock had been passed out all morning in his bedroom; the case he had solved the night before had left him irritable and moody, and unless he was given about thirty-six hours alone, he was, quite possibly, the devil's personal assistant in spreading hell on earth.

But hell on earth had been given a whole new meaning when John had gone into the kitchen to make tea, and had been rudely interrupted by a giant flying blue box from 1963 crashing through the side of his flat.

He was so glad he had moved from his armchair.

Sherlock came stumbling into the living room from his bedroom, wrapped only in a sheet (_Not again_, John thought). He took one glance at John, who stood still, frozen, in the kitchen, and stared at the blue box, eyes growing ever wider as he ran his hands through his curls.

Just as John thought that there was no way that this situation could get any stranger, two men stumbled out of the box, looking as though they had less of an idea of what happened than John did.

"American," Sherlock whispered to John before anyone said anything. The shorter man threw Sherlock a glare that would have made Hitler run for his mother.

The taller man looked around at the wreckage, then back at the blue box from which they had appeared. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry. Really, I don't know how this happened."

"Clearly," Sherlock sighed condescendingly. "What is this blue box and why did you fly it into my flat?" _No need to ask why it flies_, Sherlock thought, _it would take too long to explain, and these idiots don't look like they know the answer anyway._

"Dude, we have no idea. We were being chased, we saw somewhere to hide, we went inside. This crazy-ass contraption just took off and flew us here."

Sherlock stepped forward and examined the box, stepping carefully around the mess that used to be a flat to avoid injuring his bare feet and/or snagging his sheet on the rubble. "There's a lock on this door. Entry was clearly forced. Did you pick the lock?" Sherlock asked with genuine curiosity.

"None of your damn business," the shorter of the two shot back belligerently, and his tall companion gave him a look that Sherlock didn't know how to describe in any words other than "bitch face".

"Dean," he admonished, brushing his long hair impatiently out of his face. "Sorry, he's not all that great with sharing," he said to Sherlock and John.

Sherlock ignored this and didn't wait for permission – he strode past the men whom he determined to be brothers towards the entrance of the blue box. "Careful," Dean's brother called. "It's –"

Sherlock stopped, silent, in the door to the blue police box. He almost dropped his sheet. Not many things surprised him, but this was uncanny. Almost…supernatural.

"Yeah," the tall man beside him said. "It's bigger on the inside."


End file.
